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Chapter 22 Once Again the Invisible Hand

We crossed San Francisco Bay at its southern end, avoiding massive congestion near the city. Unlike the picturesque span of the Golden Gate Bridge, which opened onto a rugged and pristine Pacific, the southern bay was stagnant, dirty and industrial. The few rivers feeding it were moribund by late summer. San Jose sprawl took up the southern third of the bay, industrial parks and freeways eating into the wetlands. A persistent haze rested on the skyline, producing a cataract-effect on my eyes. It was hot and humid.

Passing Oakland produced a wistful moment, knowing that Harold's sister was just west of the freeway. Instead of exiting, we swung east toward the Sierras. The cabin I'd reserved for the month ...

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